


Harpsong

by Rosencrantz



Series: Ghost Stories - Fandom [7]
Category: The Twa Sisters (Ballad)
Genre: Corpse Desecration, Explanations, Gen, Ghosts, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3896758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosencrantz/pseuds/Rosencrantz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why would you make a harp out of a body?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harpsong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



> Thank you very much to my betas Snacky and Morbane who did a wonderful job.

When he sang about it later, the harper would always mention the swans. The girl had lain wet and still on the shore, and to avert his gaze the harper had focused on the swans swimming serenely on the river.

The harper had watched the miller and his daughter panic and fuss over the body. They spoke of how she was clearly noble. Then they had gone inside. To do what, the harper didn't know.

It had been a barbaric thing to do. He didn't know what had made him give in. To listen to the voice that called to him. Was it the devil? The dead girl? He should have left her body lying there. Or let the miller and his daughter call the town guard.

He should not have stolen her away.

He should not have turned her breastbone into a harp. He should not have turned her hair into harp strings. He most certainly should not have turned her finger bones into harp picks.

But he had.

Somehow the monstrosity could play. It was almost like a real harp. The bone like bleached wood under the streaks of blood, the hair like true harp strings. The finger bones like true picks. To look close would destroy the illusion. A parody of flesh made music.

He sat down heavily when his task was finished. His hands were stained red. His head pounded. His back ached from the work. He'd been unable to stop or rest. All he had done was work on his new instrument, until it was finally complete. His monstrous harp.

He was so tired, the strings - the golden hair - seemed to be vibrating. He tried to focus his eyes.

Harp music, the music of his heart, was the finest there could be. He was an old man, and he'd played almost as long as he'd been alive.

The harp was completed far more sooner than it should, or could, have been. The flesh had shriveled away, the bones had dried. The hair had been strong, stronger than hair should be. It had made perfect strings. The materials had been ready far too swiftly, denying him sleep. The force that had taken control over him at the riverbank was inside him, and it compelled him to complete the harp.

Here it was, standing tall and proud. White and golden stringed.

Harps did not make the sound that this bone harp was making.

A woman's voice, fragile and faltering, formed from the notes.

"I offered you land," it sang, "I offered you a house, you let me drown, all for my William's hand."

It was so short it was barely a song. But it was an accusation. The harper watched the harp, holding very still. He waited for another lyric. There was none. The harp was quiet.

With shaking hands, the harper cleaned the harp of the remains of its construction. Blood washed away, leaving clean carved bone and golden shining hair. He buried what he could. He burned the clothes he had worn that day.

Clean, the harp appeared merely fanciful.

The harper knew that if he did not find out who had drowned the girl, and who the girl was, the next time it sang its song of murder he could be the one in the hangman's noose. All it would take was for someone to believe he'd drowned the angry spirit.

He resented her. The possession that had led to her desecration was still in his bones, making him feel ill. He knew that it hadn't been him that had constructed that harp, that it was the girl's angry spirit that had forced him. She wanted justice. He'd felt it as he'd touched her bones.

He couldn't just toss the harp away, though he wanted to.

He had to avoid the miller and his daughter. If they'd seen him, they wouldn't hesitate to call the guard on him for corpse-robbing. The harper decided to go north, up-river. She'd drowned, he could feel it, lyrics to a song yet to come. She must have floated down from there.

Anne saw moving shadows in every corner. Each shadow was her drowned sister. Her family took her paleness for the same reason as theirs - grief. All for perfect little Helen.

William wore black. Anne wanted to see him in crimson, by her side. She had said as much – that they'd make a handsome couple – pretending she had never known about him and her sister. Helen and William had, after all, never officially announced their courtship.

William hadn't spoken to her since the offer. But he'd stayed. That, Anne felt, was sign enough that he was considering her offer.

"She slipped. It was a tragedy. There was nothing I could do," Anne said out loud to the room with too deep shadows.

She wouldn't admit her guilt out loud. And if she denied it enough, maybe her sister's spirit would believe her too. She'd been doing herself a favour when she'd drowned the brat.

Her sister's fair face dipping below the water, then her face. Dragged down by her heavy gown.

"She shouldn't have been playing so close to the shore. I warned her; the rocks were treacherous," said Anne. Did the shadows fall back?

"I warned her. I called to her. I called for her to try to come to me. I offered her my hand."

Her brother Hugh worried about her. He said she was taking what had happened to Helen too hard. That she'd tried her best to save her little sister. She was so pale now. She needed to sleep.

Anne didn't sleep much any more. She kept the lights burning.

"She fell. It was an accident," said Anne to her empty room.

On the other side of Anne's door, an unsuspected listener hesitated. Elizabeth, forgotten always by Anne, second of the three sisters, decided not was not the time to confront her sister. At least, until Elizabeth was sure the price wasn't her life.

The harper dared to play the harp, one night when he couldn't do without food any longer. He gingerly picked a note. Then another. It didn't sing. But its notes were sweet and true.

He found himself singing a song he didn't know. A song of two quarrelling sisters, and a rich farmer who might as well be king as far as the little sister was concerned. His status changed during the song's telling. The tavern he sang went quiet as he played. No one threw coins to him. Shadows seemed to reach in from the walls as the song poured out of him.

When he finished, the room felt distinctly unfriendly. The harper felt empty. Exhausted. The song had drained him. He needed a stiff drink. Carefully stowing away the damned bone harp, he made his way to the bar, avoiding the eyes of the patrons.

"I can pay," he said, laying down coin. Barkeeps were used to traveling musicians trying to sing their way out of their bill. The best way to get served and served quickly was to prove you could pay before you ordered.

"Should be more careful where you get your inspiration, old man," said the barkeep. "What do you want?"

"Something hard. No one liked my little song then, did they," said the harper with a forced laugh. "It's a classic in the south."

"Yeah, well, the lord around these parts lost a daughter to the river," replied the barkeep, sliding over a foul-smelling drink. It burnt the harper's nose to sniff it. "People might not take kindly to someone talking murder."

"Thought people liked gossip," muttered the harper as he gulped the drink. He coughed as it forced its way down into his chest like a dragon.

"They liked _her_ ," said the barkeeper. "Their family's good to us. We owe them. I suggest you change your tune if you want any hospitality around here."

The harper gave a short nod, polished off his drink, coughed, and went up to try again. His voice much huskier from the drink and head unbalanced from the same, he sang. His own song, from himself, not the spirit.

He sang the rest of the night, earning a handful of coin.

The harp let him be

That night it vibrated. The harper could feel happiness coming from it. They knew where to go now. He knew where the dead girl had come from - upstream as he'd thought.

"You'll have to sing it yourself," he whispered to it that night. "I can't be the one to do it for you. I'm an old man, I can't take that again."

The harp hummed.

Anne was powerful and striking. Helen had been soft, fair, and pretty. Elizabeth was unnoticed. Anne said that was Elizabeth's tragedy. She said it without kindness. Helen had said Elizabeth was just demure, like their parents told them women should be.

Maybe both things were true. Elizabeth was observant.

For instance, she had observed Anne pushing Helen into the river. She had seen Helen reach for Anne fruitlessly. She had seen her own doom if she had tried to interfere.

And now she saw and heard old men complain about a harper in the market, about his _insinuations_ about her family. They didn't notice her, picking through the freshly harvested apples in her black mourning dress. So she listened. The harper was at the inn.

"Should have left after what he said," said one of the men. But the harper had stayed.

"That harp of his. I never heard one like it," said another man. "Sounded more like a voice than strings. We're best off if he leaves and soon."

Elizabeth paid for her fruit and made her way to the inn.

There was no mention of the dead in today's songs. At least, no dead that anyone could identify. Old ballads of princesses and princes, and knights lost long ago. Crowd-pleasers. The harper sang for his meal and this time he was fruitful. The harp was giving him peace for now.

He knew what it wanted: to get into the farmer's household. But how was he to do that? He'd be thrown out before he or the damned harp could sing a note. He could feel the harp planning.

A young woman sat by his chair. She was not beautiful enough to be striking, or ugly enough to be memorable.

The harp let out a ringing note that he had not played.

"Ah, my apologies, miss," said the harper. "These old hands sometimes go wrong on me."

The girl inclined her head. "It's a lovely harp. I hear you tell interesting stories. Stories about murdered girls and their sisters."

The harp was humming. The harper tried to still it.

"I like those kinds of songs," said the girl. "And my sister Anne could do to hear them. I would like to formally invite you to perform at my father's tonight. All the household and the farmhands will be in attendance. You'll be given dinner and coin."

"I will come," said the harper, the words dragged out of him by the harp.

"Thank you," said the girl. "I look forward to hearing your song."

With a nod of her head, she got up and left.

Anne looked at herself in the mirror. She was beautiful. She was strong. She was being _denied_ and did not understand why. Helen was gone. She wasn't worth grieving over these long weeks, was she? And if William wanted any land worth having, he'd best take her offer now.

She had made several such offers. He still hadn't spoken to her since the first.

"Come down, Anne!" called Elizabeth. Anne gave a sigh of contempt. Elizabeth, the sister no one noticed or cared for. Anne felt she could have killed Helen in front of Elizabeth and still wouldn't have been accused.

"I'm coming, what is it?" Anne answered, looking in the mirror to do what she could about the dark circles under her eyes.

Elizabeth stepped into Anne's chambers. "Father's gotten a harper to play for dinner!"

Anne snorted. Why Elizabeth thought a harper was worth any excitement was beyond her.

Anne tucked her hair up with the last hairpin and left her room for the dining hall.

The hall was decorated in mourning finery. No expense had been spared to show Helen's death weighed heavily on the family. Everyone was there: the farmhands, the servants, even William. He was sitting at the far end of the family table, beside Hugh. Not where she could sit with him. He didn't glance at her.

She took her seat and looked around, bored. "Where's this harper?"

"Elizabeth says he's just what we need to lighten the mood. We need a bit of that, since… well, since Helen," said her father.

"I don't see why," said Anne. But she got no reply.

The harper stepped out and set a pale white harp on the middle of the floor and instead of sitting down to pluck at it, he stepped away from it. Anne frowned and leaned in closer.

The strings began to vibrate. The vibrating turned into humming. The song began.

Anne didn't listen to the words. Her entire body went cold. That was Helen's voice coming from that harp. From the gasps of the others, she wasn't the only one to recognize her dearly departed sister's voice.

The harper sat on the floor, looking drained and exhausted. The harp sang on. His head slumped. He looked as if he were lost to the world.

Her father placed a heavy hand on Anne's arm.

"Why?" he asked. His voice was tired.

"She had what I wanted," replied Anne.

The harp was buried under Helen's headstone. It was a week before the harper awoke. Elizabeth was by his bedside, a pouch of coins in hand.

"Your payment," she said. "I hope it's enough to get another harp."

As for Anne, her trial was swift. Elizabeth's testimony was damning. She went to the noose, her face as hard as stone as they put the rope around her throat.

And in the river, the swans swam as if nothing terrible had ever happened.

**Author's Note:**

> There was actually a much different version of this story originally, which you can read [here](http://www.stories.thefannish.org/onceuponaficexchange/twasisters/harpsongoriginal.html) if you're interested! It took a much more irreverent take on the subject.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Song of the North Country](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935698) by [Morbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/pseuds/Morbane)




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